


an apple a day

by bropunzeling



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:04:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bropunzeling/pseuds/bropunzeling
Summary: Carey wrinkles his nose. "Did you really put cilantro in this?"
PK laughs as he hands off another cider sampler. "Variety is the spice of life."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oops_ohdear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oops_ohdear/gifts).



> dear oops_ohdear: this was supposed to actually follow your prompts, and then it didn't, so hopefully you're okay that i went off the rails a little. it's all in the name of good booze.

After he gets out of work on Thursday, Carey has a routine. He waves goodbye to Lars and tells Brendan to fucking save their workpapers already. He grabs a sandwich from the place near his office building – salami, provolone, mustard, pickles, toasted bun – and eats it as he walks to his apartment building. And then, three blocks before home, he takes a left and heads over to the cider bar that’s right across from the hipster coffee place with the cute dogs that are always sitting outside.

“Give this a try.”

Carey sets his hat down on the bar and takes the small goblet carefully. It, he thinks, is too late for this kind of nonsense, which is pathetic considering it’s only 6:30. “Am I going to like this?”

PK shrugs. “Won’t know until you try,” he says, keeping a straight face unconvincingly.

Slowly, Carey takes the smallest of sips – and then tries very, very hard not to spit the cider right back out. “Is that fucking habanero?”

PK grins at him, swiping back the tasting glass and pouring the extra horribleness down the drain. “Possibly.”

Carey glares back at him. “I deserve something amazing just for tasting that.”

With a laugh, PK grabs another tasting glass and pours something from one of the nitro taps. “Don’t worry, buddy. I got you covered.” He grins at Carey, bright and warm, and it almost makes up for how Carey's throat is still burning.

Carey leans his elbows on the barn wood bar and sits himself down, because he knows that despite himself it’ll be a while before he gets up again. “I know you do.” He watches PK wave in some newcomers, smile big and t-shirt a little too small, and knows that even if he’s stuck in an office all the time, and even though he can’t have a dog in his apartment, and even if his knee still aches, he has this to look forward to, every Thursday, 6:30 sharp.

-

Carey first wandered into Ciderpress after his first day at the Department of Agriculture, which was also his first day in a real city with more people than cattle. Ciderpress honestly had looked pretty run down at that point, but Carey hasn’t been into beer since IPAs got big, and the bar was only a block from his first shitty apartment, the one with bright yellow wallpaper peeling in the bathroom. For a post-move drink, Carey had figured it would do.

The bartender – who Carey later learned was PK, also known as the owner/manager/fucking cider magician – took one look at him and poured him a drink. “You’ll like this,” he said, handing over the glass.

Carey had taken a sip and tasted smoke and a hint of sweetness. It almost was like having something his mom would serve at home, around the fire pit right off the porch, and he smiled a little despite himself. 

The bartender had grinned back. “Knew it,” he said, smile wide and bright. “Now, tell me your tale of woe.”

Carey snorted. “I don’t have one.”

With a snort, the bartender poured himself a small glass. “Anyone who walks in on a Thursday looking like shit has a tale of woe. Now tell it.”

Carey hadn’t meant to. Generally, he doesn’t like to talk about himself. But the bartender looked nice, and the cider was good, and Carey was just so fucking tired, and somehow the whole story about his girlfriend breaking up with him and taking the dog, and him moving across the country to start a new job even though he knows fuck all French, and his shitty apartment with shitty wallpaper and a too shallow sink - it just sort of spilled out.

After that, the bartender had nodded, and held out a hand. “I’m PK,” he said, and then, “I have something else for you to try.”

That night was the night the start of something, though Carey hadn’t intended for going out for a cider to become a weekly tradition. However, PK Subban hasn’t ever cared about Carey’s good intentions, and pretty soon made it clear that he expected to see Carey every Thursday, or else he was going to start asking questions. Or possibly heading up to Carey’s shitty apartment.

“It is just around the block,” PK said the first time Carey skipped a Thursday. “Do you have old lady neighbors? The old lady neighbors always love me.”

Somehow, even when Carey moved to a newer, better apartment – nicer wallpaper, and a deeper kitchen sink – going to Ciderpress stayed.

-

“I have to go to New Brunswick next week,” Carey says with a groan, slinging his legs over the stool and nodding when PK gestures at a tap.

PK snorts. “What’s even out there?” he asks, slinging couple of pints to Dustin and pointing out the couple towards the window. “Cows?”

“Maple syrup strategy meetings.” Carey takes a sip of the cider PK hands him – it’s good, a little bit of citrus. “What is this?”

“Someone in Toronto was experimenting with grapefruit,” PK says with a shrug. “Not bad, eh? And what the fuck is a maple syrup strategy meeting?”

“It’s good,” Carey says, smiling a little. “Yeah, we have to talk about the Federation, regulations, all that shit. It’s – really exciting.”

“Sounds horrible,” PK replies.

Carey sighs and leans on his hand, watches PK pour another glass of cider. “Pretty much.” He takes another sip of the grapefruit cider. It’s good, tangy, perfect for late fall. “Anything happening here?”

PK shrugs as he hands off more drinks to Dustin, wiping his hands off with a towel. “Got a festival, so we’ll do a couple tastings there. Any suggestions?”

“You’re asking me?” Carey asks, feeling himself smile a little despite himself. “I don’t know shit about cider.”

PK laughs. “Hey, you come here every week, don’t you? You’ve had all the good stuff. You know more than you think. Besides, I trust your judgement,” he adds with a wink.

“I don’t know,” Carey drawls, before taking another sip of cider. “Your dry one is good.”

PK hums, crossing his arms. “You don’t think it’d be too dry?”

Carey rolls his eyes. “No,” he says. “Besides, you hate too-sweet cider.”

“True!” PK says. He grins at Carey and walks over to his notepad, just behind the register. “So that’s… three for the dry.”

“Three?”

“Well, you, me, and Dustin are all in agreement.” PK says.

“I see,” Carey says wryly. “Why’d you ask me if you already knew what you wanted?”

PK looks up from his notepad and smiles, a little softer than his usual smile for greeting customers or selling a new drink. It’s the kind of smile that makes Carey’s cheeks heat up. “Because I’d at least think about doing something else if you thought it’d be bad,” he says.

Carey can feel his ears flushing. “Like you would,” he mumbles, and takes another sip of cider. He shouldn’t feel so – whatever.

“I would,” PK says, a little laughing, a little not. Then another customer comes up, another order goes in, and Carey goes back to his grapefruit cider and swivels in his chair to watch the golden retriever across the street, and mostly hopes his ears aren’t red.

-

“Are you going to that cider place again tonight?”

Brendan is the most annoying of Carey’s coworkers. Not to say he’s a bad worker – even when Brendan spends too much time mooning over the coffee guy who works in the café across the street, he still gets things done and is great at pestering the big agro companies when they try to get shirty with Carey for asking about their pesticide use. But he’s still pretty fucking annoying to everyone besides big agro companies, including Carey.

Especially Carey.

“If I did,” Carey says slowly, spinning in his chair and giving Brendan a lazy glare as he closes out of his email, which always fills up somehow when they go out in the field for the day, “what does it matter?”

“I’m just saying,” Brendan says, “it’s a little weirdly predictable.”

“People have their favorite bars,” Carey says grumpily. “I am allowed to have a favorite bar.”

“Defensive,” Brendan says, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers. “Is there a cute bartender?”

Carey presses his lips together. It’s not that he’s into PK, really, it’s just that PK’s – well. PK is at least Carey’s friend, and at most Carey’s thought about his smile more than a few times.

Not that it’s a thing, really. Carey doesn’t have _things_. He goes to work and goes to Ciderpress and sometimes to rec hockey. He doesn’t have time for things with people. Even people with nice smiles and who offer free samples.

“There is _so_ a cute bartender,” Brendan says triumphantly. “I fucking knew it! No way you’d go otherwise.”

“Fuck off,” Carey says evenly. 

Brendan just laughs at him, walking back towards his desk. Carey makes sure to add, “And call those fucks in Quebec City before you leave, yeah? We need to coordinate with the province for that maple inspection,” just to hear Brendan groan.

-

Carey does go to Ciderpress after all.

It’s not – he isn’t predictable, thanks Brendan, he just likes cider, and supposedly there’s a taco truck that PK called to have stop by, and, well, tacos. Carey likes tacos, and dog-watching, and PK.

“Carey!” PK shouts as Carey shoulders his way in, past the young couple checking out the specialty bottles in the fridges and the loud group of co-eds going through some tasting samplers. He always feels out of place in his fieldwork clothes compared to the kids that come here, cowboy boots dirt-streaked and flannel too fitted to be ironic. “I got something for you.”

“I was hoping so,” Carey says as soon as he makes it to the bar, elbows on the wood. “Long day at work.”

“Isn’t it always?” PK says, grinning at him. “But seriously. Come on back.”

“But tacos,” Carey says, but it’s a half-hearted protest. He follows PK back past the bar to a door around the corner, and judging by the widening of PK’s grin, PK knew he would.

Carey’s never been through the door to the back before. PK flicks on the lights and guides him past giant metal vats and tubes and mysterious scientific equipment towards the back of the brewing room. Carey can’t help being reminded of the thousands of dairies he’s toured, though back here smells of apples and yeast rather than cows, which is much more pleasant. 

“I just started this,” PK says, guiding Carey towards a barrel in the back with a giant “Do Not Disturb” sign on it.

Carey nods towards the sign. “Someone messing with your fermenting?”

PK rolls his eyes. “I swear to god, Nathan thinks that because he works the front he can add shit to the back vat even though I’ve told him he’ll mess with the fermentation process. Which is why he’s on booth duty for all future beer gardens.”

Raising his eyebrows, Carey leans against a vat that fortunately does not have a giant sign with bright yellow letters and a frowny face. “Harsh.”

“But justified,” PK says darkly. “But! We’re not here to talk about Beaulieu. We’re here to talk about what’s in here.” He leans on the barrel, rapping the wood with his knuckles. 

“So, cider,” Carey says.

PK shakes his head. “Not just any cider,” he says. “Aged in bourbon barrels. With maple syrup.”

“Seriously?” Carey asks, walking towards the barrel and looking at it. “That’s – probably as Canadian as you could get.”

PK laughs. “We’re thinking about calling it the O Canada,” he says with a grin as he grabs a couple glasses and pours a little for each of them. “But seriously – I want you to try it, tell me what you think. You won’t bullshit around.”

“I’m sure it’s good,” Carey says, but he takes the glass and has a sip, and – 

The first thing he tastes is smoke, and smooth. It’s like sweet whiskey, like something Carey would have with his dad when he goes back to BC, but also a little bit of maple. It’s close to perfect, except –

“A little too sweet,” he says slowly, having another sip. “But good.”

PK hums slow and deep, nodding. “So a tart apple, huh? I’ll see what our stock is like.”

“You should try using Pippins in that,” Carey says. “Make it a little more complex.”

For a second, PK doesn’t say anything. Finally, he asks, “What do you know about Pippins?”

Carey shrugs. “You know,” he says finally. “Working for agro.” After a second, he adds, “And I grew up on a farm.”

“Explains the boots,” PK says off-handedly, but he’s already taking another sip of the new cider and twisting his lip. “Pippins, huh? That’s more of a western apple.”

“There’s a few orchards closer to us,” Carey says carefully, visualizing the map of the province in his head, the pins they use to mark farms scattered in yellow and blue and pink. “Down by the States, near New York. Good climate there.”

“Huh,” PK says. He sounds thoughtful, leaning against the steel vat and staring off into the middle distance. Carey almost feels out of place in the industrial steel, painfully aware of his plaid and belt buckle and cowboy boots, the way he so obviously doesn’t quite fit into PK’s world.

“I – you don’t have to,” Carey says finally. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, rubs his fingers along the leather. “I – you know. It could be good.”

“No, man, it’s good,” PK says slowly, a smile breaking across his face like the sun after a shower. “I like it.”

“Oh,” Carey says, smiling back automatically, like he just can’t help it. It’s entirely possible that he can’t. “Well. Good.”

-

It’s a rare day when working at Agro requires a break. Well, when Carey’s in the field, anyways. Days when Carey has to deal with the Dairy Commission in his tiny cubicle make up about 90% of the remainder.

“Fuck those milk-obsessed –“ Carey breathes out slowly and makes sure the phone is safely in its receiver before standing up and leaving his cubicle. He walks over to Brendan’s desk and raps on the cubicle wall. “Come on, we’re going.”

Brendan hops up immediately, dropping his papers and grabbing his badge. “Where?”

“Coffee,” Carey says, and pretends not to notice Brendan immediately checking his shirt and messing with his hair. “Charge it to mentoring.”

Common Grounds is the most hipster coffee shop to ever see man buns. Carey doesn’t understand the appeal of half of it, but he likes the drip and that everything is fair trade, and lets Brendan order shit with nut milk and half-caf and whatever other bullshit he thinks is important for happiness. 

And Brendan’s “future husband, seriously Carey, just you wait” works there, which is always good for entertainment.

Not to say that Alex is little. Alex is actually a whole head taller than Brendan, and blushes a lot when Brendan makes googly eyes at him. The whole thing makes up for the hour of Carey’s day that got wasted yelling at some goddamn bureaucrat obsessed with milk. 

“You’re pathetic,” Carey says dryly as Brendan walks back to their table, coffee in hand and cheeks bright red.

“Fuck off,” Brendan says, brandishing his coffee cup in Carey’s face. “We almost had a conversation!”

“Almost?” Carey asks.

Brendan flushes darker. “Whatever,” he says, taking a long swig of coffee. “Stop smirking – fuck! Hot!”

With a laugh, Carey looks towards the door –

And in walks PK.

It’s weird seeing PK not behind the bar. It’s weird seeing PK not in his black t-shirt and apron and jeans, too. Carey was used to the uniform. Not to say PK in a t-shirt and jeans isn’t – well, PK in anything would be – _fuck_.

“Who is that?” Brendan hisses.

“Nobody,” Carey snaps back, turning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee. “Drink your abomination.”

“Carey?” Carey looks up to find PK smiling at him, because life is a little bit mean that way. “Hey, Carey!”

“Hi,” Carey says slowly. He can’t help smiling, because PK is smiling at him, and – shit. “You go here a lot?”

“Oh, you know, every once in a while when I have to visit vendors,” PK says cheerfully. “Do you work somewhere over here then?”

Carey nods towards the Agro office. “Just over there, at the Department of Agriculture.”

“I knew that,” PK says with a laugh. “Well, now I know where to find you when you aren’t touring orchards. Speaking of which, I’m trying that thing you suggested, with the Pippins?”

“Oh? And?” Carey asked, trying to ignore Brendan’s stare drilling into his skull.

“Well, come back in three weeks and we’ll see,” PK says with a grin and a hand to Carey’s shoulder. “See you Thursday?”

“Yeah,” Carey says weakly, stupidly aware of how warm PK’s hand is. “Thursday.”

“Great. Looking forward to it,” PK says. “Good seeing you!”

He leaves with a wave and a smile, and Carey sucks in a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. He takes another sip of drip for something to do, and very carefully faces Brendan again.

Brendan’s grin is so smug Carey wants to give him five more produce commissioners to call. “Is that the cute bartender?”

Slowly, Carey takes another sip of coffee before standing up. “You get to call the apple people,” he says as calmly as possible.

Brendan groans.

-

Carey misses the next three Thursdays.

It’s not his fault, really. He has to go up north for a week, and then to Ottawa for all Department training, and then the third week he gets back from a few days in fucking Alberta and doesn’t even want to move for four hours. And it’s not like he’s avoiding anything, because it’s not as if there’s something to avoid. He has a monster crush on PK, and PK is probably just that friendly with everyone and doesn't even _like_ Carey that much anyways, and it’s all very fine.

But after four hours, it’s 6:30, and, well. Carey’s only human.

“Hey!” Dustin says when Carey walks in, pushing past a throng of people towards the counter. “Boss! Your friend is back!” Carey feels his ears burn, but it gets him through to the bar, where PK is pouring.

When PK turns around, he smiles at Carey like he’s so fucking excited to see him, and, fuck.

“Hey! You dropped off the map,” PK says, reaching over to clap Carey on the back. Carey tries not to think about how warm his palm is.

“Work stuff,” Carey says, a little sheepish. “Lot of trips came up, and then my coworker finally asked out our barista, so. Lots of stuff. You know.” He probably sounds like a fucking idiot.

“Well, good thing you made it today,” PK says, walking around the bar and nodding towards the back door. “The cider’s just about ready. Nathan? You’re on bar.”

“Oh, you don’t have to – it’s fine, you’re busy,” Carey says awkwardly, but PK just shakes his head like he won’t hear it.

“Your idea. You have to try it,” he says, pulling the back door open, and Carey follows, tugged along in his wake.

The back room is even crazier than it was last time Carey visited. There’s pallets everywhere and boxes full of bottles, and a couple of vats full of future goodness. Carey has to step over four different pallets before they reach the back again, where there’s another barrel waiting to be tapped.

“Just give me a second,” PK says, bending over to pull out the cork. Carey watches his ass, and then guiltily looks away.

“Here we go!” PK says, holding out a glass. The cider looks almost like caramel, deep and brown. “Cheers, Carey.”

“Cheers,” Carey replies, taking the glass and then a sip.

It tastes fucking amazing.

“Shit,” PK says appreciatively. 

Carey nods slowly, taking another sip. “You did good,” he says softly.

“No, you did fucking amazing. That apples suggestion was – perfect,” PK says, smiling at Carey so widely that it almost hurts to look at him.

Carey would like to think that thinking ahead is one of his better qualities. Caution, too. But he feels heady on cider and the brightness in PK’s eyes, almost like he’s drunk on it, and maybe that’s why he leans over and kisses PK.

PK makes a noise, soft and surprised, and pulls back. The heat from Carey’s cheeks could probably fry an egg, and he’s thinking about leaving the back room and never coming back when PK grabs his glass, sets both their drinks down, and reels Carey in to kiss him again.

“You couldn’t have done that before?” PK mumbles, in between kisses.

Carey hums back. “Didn’t know I could,” he mutters back.

PK snorts. “You could’ve the first day you walked in,” he replies.

“Oh,” Carey says, and then decides that they can save talking for later. Kissing PK sounds a whole lot better.

-

A week after Carey asks if PK wants to move in, PK comes home with a Labrador puppy. Carey names him Patches.


End file.
